


The Pupil

by Autodidact, spiraldistortion (bisexualthorin)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Demons, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Gender Dysphoria, Illustrated, M/M, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Jonathan Fanshawe, Trans Male Character, Xenophilia, eldritch horror, occultism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28052667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autodidact/pseuds/Autodidact, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisexualthorin/pseuds/spiraldistortion
Summary: Jonathan Fanshawe lifts his head and turns to see the last of the candles flicker to life, all sixteen lit with bright, undulating flames that encircle the eye like a burnished golden crown. He’s barely begun to comprehend it, to process what’s happened when he hears it.A knock at the door.A man makes a bargain with an entity known as Jonah Magnus.
Relationships: Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus





	1. Ego portam tibi patefaciō

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I open the door for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

Foolish is one of the last words that Jonathan Fanshawe would use to describe himself. Determined, he’d say, were he being particularly charitable; dogged, if he were being less so. He liked to imagine that he comported himself in a manner befitting a man of medicine, relentless in his pursuit of the truth, judgment unclouded by bias and emotion.

But by God if he doesn’t feel like a fool right now.

It’s been over a decade since that day in the woods—twelve interminably, unbearably long years since the incident that set him on this path. Long enough to grieve, to move past it and start anew, as he knows his parents have. But time has done little to heal the hurt it had dealt him, and he bears his guilt like a raw, open wound. He can’t move on—can’t let it clot and scab and fade into a gnarled, unfeeling scar, a faint reminder of something that had once been and is no more. No, he cannot forget his fault in all this. He can’t forget _her._

If Jonathan has to do this for the rest of his life, risking everything for answers he may never get… well, it’s nothing less than he deserves.

He hauls himself to his feet with a grunt, knees clicking painfully as he straightens them for the first time in what feels like hours. No doubt he’ll be sore beyond belief later, if the dull, burning aches building in his neck and back and wrists are anything to go by. Just the same as any other night, really, but he’ll suffer the pain gladly if this all bears fruit. He brushes the chalk dust from his hands and reaches for the oil lamp, raising it aloft to illuminate the whole of his work.

Inscribed on the floor in the centre of the room is a geometric sigil, large enough that he’d had to push his bed and small desk to the very corners of the room to manage to fit it. The thick, white chalk lines are careful and precise: every corner sharp and exact, every curve smooth and unbroken. His breath catches in his chest at the sight of it in full. Two pairs of squares rotated forty-five degrees from one another, and within them three concentric ellipses, each thinner and more elongated than the last. And in the very centre, a perfect circle—staring up at him like the pupil in a many-lidded eye.

For the first time in far too long, something like hope blooms in his chest. He’s closer now than he’s ever been to the truth, he can feel it. Standing at the threshold to the place where he’ll find all the answers he seeks—and with the knowledge of exactly how to knock to be let in.

He turns to consult the instructions he’d left on the desk, squinting to read the small, dark letters in the low light of the room. It had taken nearly a year to get his hands on them when all was said and done. Getting an appointment with Robert Smirke had been one of the most difficult tasks he’d encountered since he began his journey, and certainly it had been the most tedious. Smirke himself had proven to be a solemn, unnerving man with cold, pale eyes that seemed to see through him down to his very bones—sizing him up, assessing him for any weakness. Jonathan had walked out of that meeting, instructions in hand, feeling somehow more unsettled than victorious.

No matter. The man had given him what he needed in the end, and it had cost him relatively little, all things considered. Jonathan had long since learned that all knowledge came at a cost: the more dearly-sought the answers, the steeper the price one had to pay for them. There wasn’t much Jonathan wouldn’t be willing to pay to get his.

The candles are next, one to be placed at each of the sixteen points of the sigil he marked onto the floor. He pulls the parcel out from his bag, careful not to catch it against the clasps. He took great pains to have the candles wrapped in the softest cloth he could find to cushion them against any damage on his trip back from the market. It seemed a bit excessive in hindsight, the packaging and the candles both. But the directions were clear: only beeswax candles were to be used, and only if they were without defect or blemish.

Slowly, so as not to disturb the chalk lines, Jonathan walks the perimeter of the sigil, placing the candles with their centres exactly over the apex of each point. By the time he finishes, his chest aches with the breath he’s held fast inside him, lungs burning with the need for air. He lets his breath leave him in a slow, controlled stream, fisting his hands into the fabric of his trousers to keep them from shaking. He can’t afford a single misstep. The slightest mistake could ruin it all before it’s truly begun, and then he’d be back at square one, poorer and more miserable than before.

It’s almost done, he tells himself. He takes in a slow, deep breath and lets his eyes fall closed. It’s almost done, and all of his caution and scrupulosity will have proven worthwhile. If it turns out this doesn’t work—that exactly following the instructions given to him yields nothing—then he can at least rest assured that it’s due to Smirke’s defective work instead of some failing on his own part.

Feeling a bit calmer, he crosses the room, reaching into his bag to fetch the last item he needs to place on the sigil: a single apple. He’d had to run down half the markets in London to find it, what seemed to be the only apple left in the city that hadn’t gone soft or wormy. So much trouble for something so small and unremarkable. He gives it a brief shine on the cuff of his shirtsleeve, just for good measure, and places it in the center of the smallest circle. The flickering light of the oil lamp glints over the skin of it, and set where it is in the middle of it all, it makes the sigil look even more like an eye, glittering up at him from out of the darkness.

There’s only one thing left for him to do now.

He grabs his medical kit and withdraws a small, sharp scalpel. This, at least, is somewhat familiar; he never has been afraid to spill a bit of blood. The blade bites into the pad of his thumb, drawing up blood that beads at the edges of the incision until they well and run over, trickling down his palm towards his wrist. He holds his hand over the largest ellipse, right at the edge where all three meet: at the confluence of the eye’s many lids. As his blood drips down to strike the floor, mingling with the chalk and turning it from white to red, he recites the words Smirke had told him.

_“Ego portam tibi patefaciō.”_

The silence that fills the room after he speaks is heavy, palpable. He doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare breathe as he watches the candles for any sign of flame. Anticipation rises in his throat as he waits, tightening his jaw and setting his teeth on edge. His body is a rope pulled taut, stretched to its capacity until it threatens to snap, hopes suspended in the moment before the drop. He waits, and it is worse than almost anything.

Anything except the nothing that follows.

“Damn that man,” he bites out, lurching to his feet. He wraps the cloth that had once bundled the candles roughly around his thumb, staunching the flow of blood. _“Damn_ him. I _knew_ it—I knew he didn’t know what he was on about.”

He slams his palms down on the desk, leaning his weight onto his arms as he hangs his head. His thumb smarts and stings at the pressure, but it barely registers through his blinding anger. He’d been _so close_ this time. This had been his big shot, his best chance at getting anywhere. He’d spent years cultivating the connections he’d needed to meet with Smirke, the man he had been led to believe knew more of these things than anyone else in London. All for naught. All for the useless words of someone with more influence than actual know-how.

Jonathan stares down at the paper before him, at the sigil in miniature inked onto the page, at the eye that stares up at him and drinks in his pain. He snatches it up with a snarl, crumpling it in his fist, and blood soaks through the makeshift bandage around his thumb, bleeding out onto the paper in dark red splotches. This was supposed to _work._ What’s he to do now?

And then, the light around him begins to change. Slowly, incrementally. The room lightens by degrees, like the sun rising over a pale morning, chasing away the dark of night. Jonathan lifts his head and turns to see the last of the candles flicker to life, all sixteen lit with bright, undulating flames that encircle the eye like a burnished golden crown. He’s barely begun to comprehend it, to process what’s happened, when he hears it.

A knock at the door.

In the formless nothing, there is a being of sight; a tangle of vibration and hearing. It listens without ears and it sees without light and it remembers, it remembers, it remembers.

It exists, most of the time, in the place beyond pain and death and fear. To be physical is to open oneself to harm, to agony, to blindness—but to be present is to gorge oneself on experience and glut oneself on terror. But in the knowing-space, it rests, digests, and hibernates. It analyzes. It records.

And it shares its learning with the generous thing that made it, for its patron is a boundless repository of fact and sense but not of insight. The Eye is an unceasing hunger for time and space and matter and abstraction and thought—for _all._ But the Eye is not a thinking thing, and it needs observers, curators, archivists, advisors. It needs beating hearts and acting hands.

In the time when it was a human creature, it took for itself the name of kings. It fancies itself a ruler, even here: it has domains, has subjects. It spares a shred of its far-reaching attention for supplicants; for those of deferent spirit and inquiring mind.

A request is made. The invitation, heard.

The majestic being does not rush to attend its summons: that would set an irksome precedent. It acts at its own pace and chooses the terms of its attendance. From a crumpled-up drawing, it views the postulant in his frustration, and it tastes his blood with formless tongue and it learns the measure of the man who called it. It sees him, and it knows him, and it _plans._

Appearances are a powerful tool, it knows—perception will inform this young gentleman’s demeanour. Even if they are to meet only briefly, the being finds the act of creation an enlightening exercise. Layer by layer, it weaves itself an earthly form and clothes itself in fair and freckled skin. It is a shape of softness, of luxury, of curving hip and curling hair. Like the one who called it, this is a man who was not born so: he discovered that truth in himself and carved out a place in the world which was not designed for men like him. This is old territory: the body is different in subtle ways, but the experiences remain.

Its eyes, as always, are a sublime shade of bottle-green. It will have to grow accustomed to having only two of them.

Before the new gentleman shows himself, he creates a set of clothes for himself fitting for a man of standing, and knowing the fashion of the day, he brings a sharp and showy cane along. A pair of golden spectacles too, because he rather likes the studious look they lend to him. As he puts them on, his vision resolves into a wooden door. He knocks, and as his hand lowers, it holds the finest specimen of an apple in all of London.

The novice magician opens the door for him. He offers up a cordial smile.

 _“Doctor_ Jonathan Fanshawe,” he says with a songbird’s lilt. “I thank you for your generous invitation. May I enter?” As he waits, he takes a crisp bite out of the fresh fruit, eating up Jonathan’s response in the same moment.

Jonathan regards the door with no small amount of trepidation.

A fool he may yet prove to be for trusting a man like Smirke, but he knows the risks he takes by courting the esoteric and otherworldly and knows them well. The knock on the other side of the door could just as easily come from a being that wishes him harm as it could an annoyed neighbour here to complain—and in this corner of London, sometimes the two are one and the same. Whatever the case, he won’t let himself be caught unawares.

Keeping an eye trained on the door, he reaches back towards the desk, fingers scrabbling over the wood until they find the cold metal of his scalpel. A meagre means of protection, perhaps, but he’s learned to make himself deadly with even less at his disposal. He curls his fingers over the handle, grip relaxed despite the tension he holds in his spine, ready to move and strike at a moment’s notice. His steps are light as he weaves his way around the candles on the floor, careful not to disrupt a single line of the sigil, careful not to make a sound.

When he gets to the doorway, he drops into a crouch, ducking his head to look out into the hall from the crack at the bottom of the door. A pair of black boots, immaculate and polished to a gleaming shine. Jonathan bets he could have seen his own face reflected back at him, were the lighting adequate. Given the weather this evening and the awful muck he himself had kicked up on his way back from the market, he finds it hard to believe the stranger at his door entered from outside.

He straightens up and takes a deep breath, holding it as he gives himself a moment to think. Smirke had assured him that the being—the servant of The Eye, he had called it—would be summoned into the center of the sigil and bound there, so long as Jonathan made no mistakes and kept it unbroken. Jonathan had made every assurance that had been the case, tracing the lines over and over until his fingers cramped. His knuckles still ache with the effort of it.

He knows he’s not infallible. He knows he’s made mistakes, time and time again. His biggest was the catalyst to this, after all—the one that he could draw a line from directly to this very evening. But his strength has always been in the details, in his fastidious and unwavering dedication to doing things correctly the first time, wherever possible. And he knows he followed those instructions to the letter, referencing and checking the paper over and over even though the words were all but burned into his memory. 

But whatever had brought this creature outside his door as opposed to inside his circle, whatever the cause, it didn’t matter. This was the hand he was dealt and he had to act smart and fast if he was to come out on top. He lets out his held breath, and with a hand that he only just manages to keep from shaking, he opens the door.

Of all the things Jonathan expected, of all the things he’d _imagined—_ and he’d imagined plenty over the course of the evening—what he finds on the other side of the door is perhaps the last among them. The man before him is short—nearly a full head shorter than he. His face and figure both are soft and curved, appealing to the eye. And he’s dressed in the sort of finery one would expect to find in London’s high streets, silk waistcoat and golden watch fob and mahogany cane.

Jonathan hadn’t expected a—a _dandy_ on his doorstep. He’s struck speechless for a moment, eyes fixed on the man’s face, on the freckles splashed across his cheeks, on the deep red ringlet that hangs down above one eye, just a bit longer than the rest. And then the man speaks, saying his name with a soft, lilting accent that marks him as a Scotsman, and Jonathan is brought back to his senses.

“Who _are_ you?” he asks, blocking his entry with his body, hand holding the blade tucked discreetly behind his back. “And how do you know my name?”

The dandy on Jonathan’s doorstep basks in the attention the gentleman’s eyes have for him, and as he chews his offertory apple, he drinks in what he can about his host. Jonathan is _young,_ first of all: not so young that he has no idea what he’s getting into, but young enough that it is highly doubtful he devised the ritual himself. Tall, by comparison—which was unusual but not unheard of. Dark, both in his haunted look and by the tones of eye and skin and hair. And handsome, unmistakably so: his intense gaze gentled by his spectacles; his striking jaw softened by his hairless chin.

It would quite like to take a bite out of him. It has always found anxiety to be a charming look.

“Why, Mr. Fanshawe, it would be highly improper for me to not know the name of the person I’m calling upon,” he responds with a cheery simper. “Knowing things is in my nature, and I know better than to arrive within your little circle.”

He can see it, past Mr. Fanshawe’s arm: the flicker of the candles and the crispness of the geometry. He makes a show of regarding it as he takes another bite from the apple which had sat in its centre just a few moments ago. “It’s very fine craftsmanship—it’d be a shame to ruin it underfoot. And I prefer to have my discussions as a colleague rather than a captive, that’s all.”

With Jonathan being armed, albeit pitifully, he makes no attempt to force entry. Instead, he continues to appeal to his sense of propriety by adding, “My time here is limited, so do please let me in so we may have a chat.”

_“Doctor_ Fanshawe,” he corrects archly, face pinching in annoyance.

He’s not, in truth. After he’d deserted his post in 1808, sick of the war and even sicker of waiting to learn the truth of what happened all those years ago, he hadn’t any money or commendations to speak of. There was no way for him to afford the cost of medical school. So, he’d slunk his way into the underbelly of society, working first as an anatomist’s apprentice and then as a go-between for the resurrectionists and the surgeons of London’s teaching hospitals, who were always in desperate need of fresh corpses to study.

The work is messy and undignified, but the pay is nothing to sneer at. And neither are the connections such a job has afforded him. It’s how he came to have a meeting with Smirke, after all—how all of this came to be.

“I see,” Jonathan begins, fingers tightening momentarily around his scalpel. “Then you should already know this: I’m not some half-wit that you can bewitch through appearance or charms.”

He watches as the man before him takes another bite of the apple, the skin of it the same deep crimson as his hair in the low light. Beauty and an apple: the oldest sort of temptation. Jonathan won’t let his will falter.

“I know how this works. And I’m not letting you in without a name.”

Regardless of how irksome Jonathan’s stubbornness is becoming, the dandy does not allow his pleasant face to falter. All he does is take a moment to breathe with foreign lungs and listen to what lays beneath the insistent lie; to let the constant susurration in the back of his mind enlighten him about the secret truths of things. He feels the prickle of it across his skin: an invigorating shiver, like listening to moving music. And he shares what he hears, just a little, in pieces.

“You are more of an _Assistant Surgeon_ Fanshawe than you are a _Doctor,_ although you aren’t even that anymore, are you? But I don’t mind humouring you.” The cheeky thing is grinning ear to ear now, smug and selfish and maliciously gleeful.

“Mm, you _don’t_ know how this works, actually—I am no fairy, and having my name grants you no power over me. But, if you insist, you may call me Jonah.” Since he has no mirror with which to view himself and he is not inclined to borrow Jonathan's eyes for that purpose just yet, he instead looks downwards, taking in his own frame as if this were the very first time he was studying himself. “Yes, I think I look like a Jonah. Wouldn’t you agree, _Jonathan?_ With you being the expert at choosing gentlemanly names and all.”

He stops staring at his own chest to take a long and tortuous time to examine Jonathan’s form, lingering on his hips, on his firm chest, and on his flat unshadowed throat, making it as much an analytic exercise as a sensual one. “It’s a good name,” Jonah says when he reaches his face. “It suits you.”

Jonathan blanches when he hears those words, that title. There isn’t a soul left in London who would know that about him—not with the war still ongoing, not after he’d changed his last name. Styling himself as a doctor had allowed him to command a respect that he might not have otherwise been granted in the circles he currently ran in. To have someone so blatantly disregard it and call him out... It shakes him to his very core.

He’s sure now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he’s gotten what he’s asked for. But as the thing that calls itself Jonah looks at him with eyes that are far too knowing, he’s no longer sure that he’s prepared for all that entails.

There has to be some way to save the situation, Jonathan thinks. He may not have the upper hand he thought he’d have, but he can still get what he needs if he plays his cards right. If Jonah isn’t beholden to his command, then Jonathan will just have to barter for his answers, work towards an even exchange.

It quickly becomes clear that Jonah has no interest in playing fair.

Jonathan feels as though the very floor beneath him has dropped out, his stomach lurching awfully at the insinuation. _How could Jonah know?_ How could _anyone_ know? He’d left that part of himself in the past, along with everyone who’d ever known it. Cut it from himself as physically as he could, burned it, buried it. No one in all of London knew—no one, except it seems, for Jonah.

He doesn’t dwell on it now, though. The only thing that matters in this very moment is to get Jonah out of the hall and away from any prying ears and eyes.

“Keep your voice down,” Jonathan hisses, glancing quickly down the hall to either side of Jonah. He steps back slightly, opening the door a bit wider and gesturing Jonah inside. “Get inside.”

Jonah follows the direction at once, resisting the urge to touch Jonathan on his way past. He cannot resist a bit of teasing, however, and asks him, “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?” That being said, he does not regret antagonizing Jonathan in the slightest: his own heart is quickening with excitement at the same rate as Jonathan’s does with distress. It certainly helps to make the good mood he’s affecting a touch more genuine.

Jonathan shivers as Jonah brushes past him, far too close for comfort. He’s not often given to impulse, but if Jonah tried to touch him… The scalpel in his hand feels heavier than it has any right to.

As soon as Jonah crosses the threshold, Jonathan moves quickly to close the door and slide the chain lock back into place. It occurs to him that there’s possibly nothing in those halls or beyond more of a danger to him than the being in his room, and he’s gone and locked himself in with it. He turns and puts his back to the door, letting his arm hang such that the blade is obscured behind his thigh.

Jonathan knows he needs to keep a level head, but Jonah’s words incense him, his mockery a pointed jab at his already bruised ego. He curls his free hand into a fist and bites his tongue—he can’t imagine things could get much worse than they already are, but he isn’t eager to push his luck.

There is not much to the flat, all told: Jonathan seems to live a meagre life. There is no obvious place for guests to be entertained, especially not now, with the sigil dominating the singular room. Jonah stands between two of the lighted candles to study it up close, and plants the tip of his cane inside the space between the ring of squares and the ring of ellipses, leaning his weight forward on it with both hands to study it closer. It would be terribly easy to give him a push into the circle proper, but he seems unaware of this or, at the very least, unconcerned.

“Whose design is this?” Jonah asks. He has his theories, naturally, but he is always ready to be surprised by an unexpected answer.

Jonah stands between him and the sigil now, and Jonathan watches him closely as he studies it. The light from the candles pick up strands of copper and bronze in his hair, drawing Jonathan’s eye to his profile. There’s a delicacy about his features that Jonathan recognizes—things he sees in his own reflection, when he can stomach more than a moment’s look into a mirror. Softness where one might expect hard lines and angles on a man’s face; long lashes, a smooth chin.

What had Jonah called him? ‘The expert at choosing gentlemanly names?’

 _Choosing,_ that was the key here. It was a very deliberately selected word, meant to catch him off-guard and start him off wrong-footed. But despite knowing the intent behind it, there was something about the way in which Jonah said it that nags at Jonathan—as if he were not only applying it to Jonathan, but also to himself.

When Jonah leans forward to inspect the sigil, Jonathan takes the opportunity to look him over more closely. He’s never met another man like himself. In fact, he’d even begun to suspect that there _were_ no other men like him—that he was alone in feeling such a rift between body and mind. And though he’s still angry and wary, curiosity starts to win over.

Though Jonathan himself is far from what he’d consider a fashionable man, he’s seen enough high street fops to know what counts as one. He’d startled something awful when he’d arrived back in London after leaving his post, the streets teeming with well-dressed men with waists pulled narrow and chests padded to prominence. All the things about his body he’d tried for years to desperately hide and contain, here on parade. He hadn’t understood it _—couldn’t_ understand the appeal. But now, as his eyes trace the soft lines of Jonah’s body, he thinks he might begin to.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by the sound of Jonah’s voice—and this, too, catches his notice, now that he has the space to think. Pitched low but without gruffness, clear and a bit musical. His heart skips in his chest, anxiety transmuted into excitement as all the pieces start to come together in his mind.

He clamps down on the feeling before it has a chance to overwhelm him. He has a purpose, one that far outweighs any foolish hope that tries to take hold. Jonah is his best chance at getting some answers, nothing more.

“I’m the one asking the questions,” he says, trying to suffuse his voice with confidence he doesn’t quite feel. “But if you must know, it was designed by a man named Smirke.”

_“Really,_ now.” His intrigue clearly shows that this is not a name unknown to Jonah. The two of them are acquainted, in fact—have been for years, though Jonah has known and haunted Robert Smirke for much longer than that. Now that Jonathan’s said it, he sees the man’s influence in the commitment to form, to symmetry: he would expect nothing less from an architect’s forays into the occult. Jonah forgives himself for not seeing it sooner when he is much more accustomed to the ink-on-canvas sigils that are Smirke’s preferred medium, crisp and perfect and ready to be rolled up, stored, and reused whenever he has need of them.

“Yes,” Jonathan ventures. He wonders now if offering up any information, even something as seemingly inconsequential as that, was a mistake. “But I’m sure you knew that already.”

 _Shouldn’t_ Jonah have known that? And if so, what did he gain by asking Jonathan questions to which he already had the answers? He can’t help feeling that Jonah is assessing him in some way, testing his mettle, but he doesn’t quite understand how.

As he continues to stand, Jonah thinks it unfortunate that there is not much of a place to sit in here—just the desk chair and the bed, pushed into the corner of the room and largely inaccessible. Jonah doesn’t relish the idea of having a long discussion on his feet, and if Jonathan’s previous display of reluctant hospitality is any indication, then he will likely have to see to his own comfort.

Repositioning the cane inside the outer ring that is a multitude of straight lines, he drags the tip along the edge of one of them, right through an intersection, and does it again to make sure that the line is indeed broken. If not for the slight smudge of chalk left behind, it almost looks like the lines were never meant to be joined to begin with. Carefully, Jonah enters the sigil and does not dirty his boots one bit as he makes his way on tiptoe across the circle—and out again, stepping over the candles, equally as mundane as Jonathan had been while drawing it.

“You can put your lancet down, by the by. Not that it would do you much good.” Jonah sits down on the mattress, sets his clothing right, and leans back slightly, crossing his boots at the ankle. “And should you want me gone, then all you would have to do is extinguish the candles. I can stay here untethered for as long as they burn, and no longer. So do be careful.”

He gives Jonathan an expectant look and gestures for him to speak. “Go on. Ask your little questions, then.” In the meantime, Jonah is content to simply eat his apple and listen.

Jonathan flinches when Jonah breaks the sigil, disrupting in mere moments what it had taken him hours to construct. It had been useless, of course, a painstaking exercise in futility, given the way Jonah circumvented it with ease. Still, it feels as though a layer of protection has been stripped from him, leaving him open and exposed. He’s reluctant to weaken himself any further.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t,” Jonathan says evenly. The pretense of being unarmed gone, he no longer bothers to hide the scalpel, holding it ready at his side. He frowns as Jonah settles himself onto his bed, the very picture of irreverence and impropriety. “I shouldn’t like to give the impression that your presence is yet a welcome one.”

For the first time since he arrived, Jonah’s words fill him with a measure of relief. It’s good to know that he could be banished at all, and in such a simple, straightforward way. Jonathan had been prepared to fight if the situation called for it, but he certainly wasn’t eager for the opportunity.

Of course, Jonah could be lying.

He could be trying to lure Jonathan into a false sense of security, giving him the impression of agency and control. Coaxing him into docility with one hand while he aims to strike with the other.

God, if Jonathan could just _know_ what he wanted. Why stay and humour him if he wasn’t bound? Why agree to answer any questions at all? Jonah remains inscrutable, no answers that Jonathan can interpret written on his face.

It’s very tempting to ask after Jonah’s intentions outright, and Jonathan briefly considers doing so. But he doesn’t know the rules, doesn’t know how many questions he’ll be permitted to ask. He needs to stay focused, keep his eyes on the goal.

“I need you to tell me what happened on the sixth of November, seventeen ninety-nine,” he starts, eyes intent on Jonah. “Where did Juliana go?”

Jonah understands now that his assessment of Jonathan’s stubborn behaviour may have been too generous—he mentally corrects his opinion to _churlish,_ at least for the time being. “May I remind you that _you_ invited _me,”_ he snaps, because Jonathan deserves it. “If you are going to continue to be uncivil and bitter about your ritual not working entirely as planned, then I will go, and you will be fortunate to simply be short some supplies and a few drops of blood.”

Jonah’s posture has shifted to leaning forwards, hand tight on the grip of his cane, thankful that there is a precarious circle separating him from Jonathan. But he works to master his emotions once more, relying on analysis to show him the best way forward. “I know that the unknown terrifies you,” he begins, “but I am not your enemy. If you do not mean me harm, then I do not mean you harm. Think about all the effort you have expended already.”

Much as he dislikes being caged, he can tell that Jonathan is the sort of person who needs security and peace of mind in a life where he has had precious little of it. And so, with the cane, Jonah points towards the desk chair. “Put that in the middle of the circle. Complete it. I will sit, and then we may talk as men.”

Despite having spent the whole of their acquaintance thus far preparing for Jonah’s treachery, Jonathan finds himself quite taken aback at the flash of anger. Something dark had passed over Jonah’s face then, something that frightened Jonathan rather more than he’d like to admit. And worse, rather than feeling vindicated in his immediate distrust of Jonah and his intentions, he feels properly admonished—scolded for his lack of manners like some impolite child.

But the last thing he wants is for Jonah to leave, taking with him any hope of answers. And though Jonathan doesn’t miss the implied threat in Jonah’s words, he bites down on his reaction, forcing himself into careful neutrality. He can swallow his pride, at least for a little while, to maintain the peace and get what he seeks.

Jonathan walks around the sigil, keeping himself pressed as close to the wall as he can manage, and places the scalpel on the desk. It brings them much closer together—there’s hardly a metre of floor space between where Jonathan stands and Jonah sits perched atop Jonathan’s bed. At this distance, Jonathan can even discern the colour of his eyes, a deep, verdant green made all the more striking by his pale skin and red hair.

Jonathan blinks and averts his gaze quickly, feeling chagrined as his face heats. He’s far too old for this sort of foolish behaviour—he’s never even _been_ the sort to be taken by fancy in such a way. It’s as though Jonah had been specifically crafted to serve as the perfect distraction to him, to tempt his thoughts away from what he needs to do and instead…

Instead fixate on what he _wants_ to do.

And against his better judgment, he _wants_ to take Jonah at his word. He _wants_ to believe that Jonah means him no harm—that he’d allow himself to be contained in Jonathan’s circle simply because Jonathan wished it. It’s folly and he knows it, but at the very least Jonathan has to concede that Jonah has a point: he’s already put in so much effort. Nearly more than he could afford, if he were being honest with himself. And though Jonathan would continue on in his search for answers no matter the outcome of tonight, he knows that his resources are finite and the avenues of pursuit available to him are fast dwindling in number. So, he lets himself be borne on his quiet hope for resolution and what small amount of faith in others he has left.

“Alright,” he says, softly. It’s hard to get out at first, but once he’s said it, he feels better about the decision. “Alright. How should I go about this?”

Jonah does not have to look far to find what he seeks: a chamberstick sitting on the bedside table. Without asking permission first, he bends down to light it from one of the burning candles and sets it back in its place by the bed. He hasn’t been especially keen on experimenting with the particulars of rituals, but he hopes that the little flame will be enough to keep him bound to this place.

Patiently, he tells Jonathan, “The same as before, but fix the circle and snuff the candles first. Wait until I’m seated, and then you may bleed and say your words again.”

Jonathan lifts the desk chair and carries it to the center of the circle, careful not to step on or disrupt any of the remaining lines. And though his fingers protest, he takes up the chalk once again. He redraws the line Jonah erased, blending it smoothly back into the rest, keeping the corners sharp and precise. One by one, he extinguishes the candles, moving clockwise around the sigil until all are dark. Curiously, their time alight seems to have had no effect on them; all the wicks remained unburnt, all the wax smooth and unmelted. The only evidence that they were ever lit at all is the faint smell of smoke in the air, and the man perched on the edge of his bed.

“Please,” Jonathan says, turning to Jonah and gesturing at the chair. “Sit.”

Once Jonah is seated, Jonathan kneels at the edge of the sigil, holding his hand over the outermost ellipse as he digs his knuckle into his thumb to reopen the wound. He lets his blood drip onto the chalk line and speaks the incantation once more.

_“Ego portam tibi patefaciō.”_

Jonah prays that the one precarious candle and the apple, half-eaten, will be enough to tether him to this room. With a long and moderately salacious lick across the apple’s waxy skin, Jonah seeks out any remnant of Jonathan’s touch remaining on the fruit, trying to keep it subtle through the bite he takes at the end of it. If he can, he would like to avoid being subjected to another summoning: he would have to craft this form again from its most base components, and that would require some time and attention. Whatever he or Jonathan did, it seems to work, at least for the moment—though it takes a Herculean effort to remain both here and whole.

With a courteous nod and an approving smile, not showing anything of his struggle beyond a bit of muscular tension, Jonah takes a prim seat in the middle of the sigil and lays his cane across his lap. Jonathan bleeding for him is a _torture—_ he yearns for it; craves it in his cells and in his very essence. Instinct wants to drive him down on his knees, licking every stain and droplet up, damn the chalk and damn the dirt. Jonah catches himself moving and he stops, shudders, straightens. Patience and decorum. He can still perform that.

Despite Jonathan’s efforts, the candles do not light. Jonah buries his irritation behind a mocking little grin. _“Ah-ah-ah,”_ Jonah tuts. _“Virgin_ blood, dear. Get the knife, try it again.”

When nothing happens, Jonathan looks up at Jonah sharply. The first time had taken a moment to work, yes, but Jonathan had chalked that up to the distance Jonah had had to travel to get here. Given that he’s here now—and in the bloody circle, no less—Jonathan doesn’t understand what the problem could be. And he doesn’t wish to be on his knees before Jonah a moment longer than he has to.

Jonah is watching him with a look in his eyes that Jonathan struggles to place. Something hard and sharp, something… something like _hunger,_ Jonathan thinks, though he can’t imagine why. But when he speaks, his voice is as cordial as ever, if a touch strained. It takes Jonathan a moment to parse his words, for the meaning of them to sink in—and when they do, Jonathan rears back, his face hot with his embarrassment and indignance.

Virgin blood, Jonah had said. _Virgin._

Before he can think, his mouth is already open to—to what? Defend his modesty? His privacy, at the very least? Just as he’s about to tell Jonah off, his mind finally catches up to the rest of him. Virgin blood _—fresh_ blood. Jonah was merely asking him for blood sourced from a newly opened wound.

Mortification complete, Jonathan snaps his mouth shut, teeth clicking together with the force of it. Before he can make an even larger fool of himself, he hauls himself to his feet to fetch his knife, feeling especially awkward and ungainly. When he sinks to his knees again, his hands tremble with nerves, too shaky to be of immediate use. He lets his eyes fall closed, taking in deep, slow breaths until he feels them steady.

On an exhale, he opens his eyes and brings the blade to his palm, drawing it smoothly across the width of it. He has to bite down on his tongue to keep in a hiss of pain, but it’s well worth it: blood gushes hot and fast from the wound, spreading quickly over his palm. Let Jonah tell him that _this_ wasn’t fresh enough.

Shuffling forward on his knees, Jonathan lifts his hand over the edge of the sigil, squeezing it closed so that the blood runs in a single, smooth rivulet from his palm to the floor. And this time, when he goes to repeat the words, he looks Jonah in the eye as he does it.

Jonathan’s visceral reaction to the word tells Jonah a great deal about Jonathan’s personal life—certainly much more than he’d intended. Jonah files that information away for later and does not tease him for it, does not laugh: he remembers being Jonathan’s age once, in his prime but with a body incongruent with his soul. It takes courage to bare oneself to the judgemental gaze of others, and it is not surprising that Jonathan has not seen fit to do so before. Jonah thanks his foresight for choosing to take on this particular form again. It makes him relatable. It builds empathy and _trust._

With the clean blood dyeing the chalk and the incantation spoken, the candles all flare to life in an instant. And by that briefest burst of light a new truth is revealed: a column of pale fibres from ceiling to floor, a snarling nest of them, bunched up inside a space much too narrow for its mass. Wrapped up in and strung on the cords like macabre beads are a myriad of eyes and all of them, at once, snap to focus on Jonathan. The monstrosity _touches_ him, too—his hand, still in the circle when the invocation was complete, is momentarily bound up in its coils, eyeballs examining him by pressure as well as sight. The feeling of an arm plunged into a full fishing net; yielding and sliding and damp.

The experience lasts for only a split second—much too fast to consciously comprehend. And there in the wake of it is Jonah, finely-dressed and candle-lit, exhaling and softening in visible relief.

The effect, this time, is immediate.

No sooner has the last word left Jonathan’s lips than the candles light as one, small, bright flames winking into existence and bathing the room in flickering golden light. He watches, entranced, as the pool of his offered blood begins to glow, transforming from deep, shadowy crimson to shining molten silver. It flows quickly along the branching arteries of the chalk lines, marking the sigil out with argent boundaries that gleam against the dark wood of the floor. Jonathan feels the radiant power of it up his entire arm, humming under his skin, shining out from the cut on his palm and the blood that drips down his wrist.

It had _worked._

His mouth twists into a triumphant grin, pleased that something had actually gone right for once tonight. Relief has only just begun to wash over him when it happens.

In the space between one blink and the next, Jonathan’s vision fills with a mass of writhing tissue, nightmarish and awful to behold. It’s gone in an instant—perhaps was never truly there at all—but Jonathan’s body reacts instinctively, recoiling with such force that he falls backwards, head bumping against the desk hard enough to see stars. When he squeezes his eyes closed, he can still see the hulking shape of it, bursting across the dark of his eyelids like a burning afterimage.

It takes a long moment for him to come back to himself, slumped against the desk and fighting to get his breathing under control. He must have screamed, he thinks—his throat smarts and aches, as if something had been torn out through his mouth. What had happened? A sense of terrible _wrongness_ fills him that he can’t seem to shake. Frantically, he scrubs his hand against his trousers, trying to wipe away whatever it is that coats his hand in a slick, thick film. All he succeeds in doing is smearing his own blood across the fabric. The sick, tingling sensation remains.

“What…” Jonathan breathes out, staring sightlessly down at his hand. The cut still oozes blood, sluggish now and partially clotted. _“What was that?”_

Jonah regards Jonathan’s antics—the flight, the yell, the frenetic cleaning—with something between satiety and amusement. And it _is_ amusing, objectively, getting to see that flash of smugness knocked clean off Jonathan’s face as he is forced to comprehend exactly _what_ kind of horror he is trapped in a room with. His true and mortal terror is a welcome treat, and a fair exchange, Jonah thinks, for voluntarily being trapped.

“Oh, _Jonathan._ That was _me.”_ He cannot help his delighted laugh, but at least he keeps it brief. “Apologies for startling you. Do you see now why I arrived at your door instead of in the circle? This is a much more pleasant face to greet you with.” Which it is, if he may say so himself, with its expressive lips and rosy cheeks.

As Jonathan continues to make a terrible mess of his trousers with the blood and oil both, Jonah offers him a piece of advice. “In the future, perhaps you might make a habit of keeping your hands to yourself when completing a ritual.”

“You... you choose to look as you do.”

It makes sense, really, that a being of Jonah’s power would be able to choose his form at will. What makes less sense is the disappointment that sinks into his belly like a stone.

Of course Jonah wasn’t like him, not truly. It’s all an illusion, some elaborate mockery to lull him into a false sense of security. Designed to make him feel a kinship to this alien being, to build a measure of trust where otherwise none would have been.

He supposes it should make him angry, this trickery. What he feels instead is hollow. But he’ll have time later to mourn the death of the fleeting hope he’d had—the thought that, for once, he might not be alone. For now, he has to focus on what he summoned Jonah to do.

“In the future, I’ll have no need for such advice,” Jonathan says sourly. He pushes up onto his feet, bracing his hand against the desk to hold himself steady on still-trembling legs. “That is, of course, assuming you prove to be useful.”

He looks over to Jonah, taking in that lovely face, that soft, curved form—all a lie. Bitterness fills him, and it makes him perhaps more insolent than is wise, given he hardly knows the extent of Jonah’s abilities.

“Should I instead find you lacking, I suppose I’ll have to avail myself of the services of a being more powerful than yourself.”

Though Jonathan’s disappointment does not escape Jonah’s notice, he lets the subject of his appearance drop for now. It would seem horribly insincere to insist that this shape is but a stone’s throw from his original one when he had been laughing at Jonathan’s misfortune just a moment ago. That is the sort of discussion which can wait for a much more appropriate time—perhaps one not bounded by the melt of candle-wax.

Jonah doesn’t take Jonathan’s snippy defensiveness personally—it is a transparent ploy to rile him up, and he refuses to allow it to do so. “Best of luck in finding one,” he simply says, and resumes eating his apple, chewing as he takes a moment to think.

“The sixth of November, seventeen ninety-nine. I may be able to assist you with your questions.” It is almost certain that he would be able to assist Jonathan, but willingness and capability are entirely different things. “But first, _tell me everything you can about that day.”_ The physical restraint of the circle means little to a creature of sight and story and supernaturally compelling words.

Now that Jonathan has Jonah bound within the sigil, he grows impatient for answers. He watches as Jonah chews slowly, taking his time in thinking it over—and wasting Jonathan’s. The evening has taken a toll on him, whether he’d like to admit it or not, and though it had taken years to get to this point, Jonathan finds that he would quite like it to be over with already. He’s just about to voice his frustrations when Jonah speaks.

Jonah’s voice has changed somehow—or perhaps it’d be more correct to say that Jonathan’s _perception_ of it has changed. It carries the same appealing lilt, but now it resonates in his chest, sonorous, mesmerizing. The words spoken are a command, brook no arguments, but there’s something… something sweet about them, something utterly compelling. They wash over Jonathan like a physical thing, making him shudder and raising gooseflesh across his skin.

There’s a buzzing in his ears and against his lips, tingling in his throat and on his tongue. Pressure builds and builds in his chest until it’s nearly unbearable, slamming against his ribcage, trying to break free. And Jonathan _wants_ it to. Wants to dig his fingers into his chest, clawing through skin and sinew and bone to let it out, born from him and into the world where the truth of it can be seen and known.

He opens his mouth—to draw in breath, to scream—and it flows from him, words that he can’t hear but can _see_. They collect in his vision, clouding it over, stinging at his eyes until he has to squeeze them shut against the pain.

When he opens them again, the room is gone, replaced by the naked branches of trees that stretch up into the clear blue sky. Leaves crunch underfoot as he walks, skirts swishing around his ankles, snagging on brambles. And there’s a presence at his side—a small, warm hand held in his own.  
  


[Image description: A sheet of rag paper with handwritten instructions, followed by an illustration of the sigil used in the summoning ritual, with measurements. The innermost circle is 3 feet in diameter, the outer circle is 7 feet, and each of the squares measure 8 feet on a side. The instructions read as follows:

Ritual for the Servant of the Eye

The seal below will be drawn on a flat surface with chalk, with the top of the design facing North. The innermost circle will be drawn first, then next the outer circle, then the ellipses. The squares will be drawn last, four in total, each rotated twenty-two and a half degrees from the previous square. It is of vital importance that each of these lines remain unbroken.

A new and unblemished candle of beeswax will be placed at each of the sixteen outermost vertices, touching but not covering the chalk lines. An unblemished apple will be placed in the exact centre of the seal.

The celebrant will stand or kneel at the Western side of the seal, facing East. With a clean knife, the celebrant will make an incision on his person and allow a number of drops of blood to fall upon the point of confluence of the ellipses. The celebrant will then speak the following incantation:

“Ego portam tibi patefacio.”

If the ritual is successful, the candles will ignite and the Servant of the Eye will be summoned and bound within the seal.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigil design done by Cat and Smirke’s ritual page done by Leto.
> 
> Latin translation done by clairvaux. Thank you so much!
> 
> As always, huge thanks to the Jonah server. Love you guys <3
> 
> Cat (spiraldistortion) can be found on twitter and (sometimes) on tumblr. Come say hi!
> 
> Leto (Autodidact) can be found on twitter @quickenedsilver and on tumblr @divorcecravat.
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Blood sacrifice, body horror, eldritch horror, emotional manipulation. [return to top]


	2. Sub obtūtū omniscientī

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the omniscient gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Click to view content warnings.

“Come _on,”_ Juliana whines, tugging on his hand to get him to speed up. “The sun’s going down, we don’t have much time!”

Jonathan bristles with annoyance and rolls his eyes. He’s just turned eight years old—much too old now to be burdened with watching his little sister all the time. But Mother had threatened to get rid of his books entirely if he didn’t obey, and those were more precious to him than anything else in the world.

“If you keep pulling at my arm like that, I’ll turn around and go home,” Jonathan says coldly. “And then you’ll never get to show me whatever it is that has you in such a state.”

“Hmph,” Juliana huffs, but she lets up a bit on his hand. “You don’t have to be so _mean.”_

She’s pouting now, spectacularly: cheeks puffed up, bottom lip jutting out. It makes her look childish, Jonathan thinks disdainfully. Childish and _stupid._

“Clearly I do,” he says. “You’re acting like a baby.”

This stops Juliana in her tracks. Jonathan tries to keep walking forward, but her grip on his hand tightens and it jerks his arm back painfully. Whirling around, he fixes her with his sharpest glare. Wasn’t she the one that had wanted to hurry onward?

“I’m not a baby!” she shouts. Her face has turned an ugly, blotchy shade of red and her eyes shine wetly. Jonathan’s just about sick of all this. He could be out reading under the tree in the yard, but instead he has to deal with one of Juliana’s tantrums.

“No?” he asks, voice raised in derision. “Then why are you crying like one?”

“I am _not!”_

“You are too!”

Juliana rips her hand out of Jonathan’s and takes off running, heading deeper into the woods. He quickly loses sight of her among the trees, but he can still hear her footsteps crashing through the underbrush. The vicious triumph he had felt in upsetting her fades fast, replaced instead by guilt and a nebulous sense of shame. She was being irritating—is _often_ irritating—but still, he knows he ought not to have treated her as harshly as he has.

“Juliana?” he calls out sheepishly. There’s no response, but he hardly expected one. Even if she could still hear him, he doubts that she’d be willing to talk to him just yet.

Sighing deeply in resignation, he makes to follow after her. He can no longer hear her running through the trees, but it doesn’t take more than basic observational skills to see which way she went. Where the ground is bare, her shoes have left skidding prints in the mud, and she’s tracked it all over the layer of fallen leaves as she ran.

Jonathan grumbles to himself, beginning to feel annoyed again, but he knows this is the right thing to do. And if nothing else, Juliana was right on one count: the sun _is_ starting to set. With the days growing shorter as winter approaches, Jonathan reckons they have less than an hour of daylight left. If he doesn’t have them both home by sundown, Mother would have his hide, and Father… Jonathan doesn’t want to think about the look of disappointment that would cross his face.

“Juliana,” he calls again, louder this time. He stops in his tracks, holding his breath to better listen out for any sign of her. After a moment, he catches the sound of crying somewhere to his left. Headed in the right direction, then. He starts walking that way, taking several long strides before calling to her again. 

“Juliana!”

At this, her sobs cut off, hiccoughing into half-muffled sniffs that he imagines she thinks he can’t hear. Rolling his eyes, he adjusts his path forward and trudges on.

The woods have gotten denser and closer the longer he’s walked, the wide, scarred trunks and thick boughs of tall, old trees casting the ground into deeper darkness. Saplings struggle to grow up in the shadows, short and stunted by the lack of light, the lack of space. They stretch their spindly branches outward to fill in the spaces closer to the ground, and Jonathan has to push and shove past them with increasing frequency to make his way through.

It’s beyond frustrating to have to fight so hard for space and for movement like this. With his hands occupied clearing the way, Jonathan’s skirts swish and tangle around his ankles, threatening to trip him up just as much as any bramble or rock. How could Juliana have made her way through all of this so quickly, when she was so much smaller and slighter than he? He pays for this moment of distraction by losing hold of the branch he’s pushing aside, catching the thin, whippy offshoot high on the cheek as it springs back towards him. Hissing in pain, he jerks his hand up to his face, pressing his fingers to his stinging skin; when he draws them back, the tips are painted red with a line of blood.

“Juliana!” he yells, loud and furious. “This isn’t funny!” 

He had thought he might try to talk to her, maybe _—maybe—_ even apologize. But now his face is bleeding and the bottom of his skirts are spattered in mud that will take him hours to get out and he’s going to get Juliana home even if he has to _drag_ her.

There’s a rustling just ahead of him, and when he whips his head in its direction, he finally catches sight of her. She seems to have wedged herself into the hollow of a tree, hiding her mostly from view. Only her legs stick out, bent at the knee, heels pressed against one of the big, gnarled roots jutting up from the ground. One of her stockings is badly ripped, a ragged hole in the fabric stretching from her ankle to halfway up to her knee, and oh, Mother is going to give him an _earful_ about that. Probably will insist _he_ repair it even though it’s Juliana’s stocking and her own fault besides. Because he’s the elder of the two and he ‘should have kept a better eye on her.’

Fuming, he trudges his way over, ready to pull her out by the hair if necessary, and then—then something happens. The strangest sensation comes over him, halting him dead in his tracks, and he has to throw his arms out to keep his balance, his body swaying forward at the abrupt stop. There’s a pressure around his head, squeezing at his temples tighter and tighter. Pain blooms across his face, concentrated behind his eyes, and he screws them shut against it. In the absence of sight, his other senses heighten, and it’s then that he realizes the woods around him have gone quiet.

No birdsong. No sounds of insects. Not even the whistle of wind through the leaves. Merely silence—absolute and complete.

It hurts almost more than the pressure. Jonathan claps his hands to his ears, ducking his chin against his chest as tears leak out from the corners of his tightly closed eyes. He wants nothing more than to run away, but he’s immobilized, rooted to the spot, legs gone leaden in his terror. The pound of Jonathan’s heartbeat is loud in the deafening quiet of the woods around him, and he’s sure that anyone can hear it—sure that it’ll be what gives him away, what gets him _caught._

Through his hands, he hears a piercing scream, a wordless sound of fright. He forces his eyes open, and though his vision is blurred by tears, he can see Juliana’s shoes disappear from sight, pulled back in towards the tree.

And then it’s over.

All at once, the pressure lets up and everything can breathe again. Sound crashes back into his ears, too much and too loud. His legs turn to water and he falls hard to his knees, throwing out his arms to catch himself as he lurches forward, scraping his palms against the rough bark of a root. It’s all he can do to just breathe for a moment, reigning in his sobs and waiting for the racing of his heart to subside.

He lifts his head slowly, looking to the spot where his sister had been only moments before. “J-Juliana,” he says hoarsely. His throat burns and it hurts to speak but he tries again. “Juliana!”

Legs too weak to stand, he crawls through the underbrush, knees sinking into the soft earth, thorns catching and pulling at the fabric of his skirts. He knows she’ll be there, tucked up into the tree hollow—she _has_ to be. Jonathan will even forgive her for her nasty trick, for scaring him so badly, just so long as she’s there.

But when he pulls himself around to the other side of the tree, she’s nowhere to be seen.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. The hollow isn’t very big, maybe half a meter wide, less than a third of that deep. And it’s empty. He shuffles forward on his knees and plunges his hands into the hole, feeling around every knot and crevice. “She—no.”

His palms are scraped raw and his fingers are full of splinters within minutes, but he keeps feeling for something, anything that could show where she’d gone. A hinge along the edge of the hollow, a hidden hole in the ground—anything. But the tree is solid under his hands, the ground firm and unyielding.

He hasn’t stopped crying since his knees hit the ground, not really, but it’s worse now. His chest feels tight, like it’s shrinking around his insides, like he’s being squeezed slowly by a pair of huge, invisible hands. It gets harder to draw in breath and he’s half afraid his heart will pound out his chest if it doesn’t slow down and he’s so _scared._

Juliana isn’t in the tree or anywhere else around. The only sign that she was here at all is the grooved channels dug into the mud at the base of the tree where her feet had been dragged through it.

She’s gone.

“No!” he says again, louder this time. He pounds his fists against the trunk of the tree and shouts his fear and anguish into the unforgiving bark. Screams and calls for Juliana until his voice goes hoarse and the panic rises and fills him completely and the world around him goes dark.

When Jonathan comes back to, he’s on his knees in front of the sigil, hunched over onto the ground. His hands are clenched into tight fists against the floor, throbbing and aching from the force with which he had slammed them against the wood. Tears sting at his eyes as he shudders through deep breaths, trying to collect himself.

He’d lived that day over and over again in his nightmares. Each time the same, each time just as helpless. Plunged again and again through the anger and the loss and the grief and the shame. The way his parents had looked at him when he’d tried to explain, the way they didn’t believe him, the way they never treated him the same again. Their lives had been ruined in the span of minutes, altered completely and irrevocably.

And it was all Jonathan’s fault.

Jonathan shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. He knows that he can’t fix it, not really, not entirely. Too much damage had been done. His father has already passed, as far as his mother was concerned, to her both of her daughters had already died long ago. But if he could just figure out what had happened, maybe he could begin to understand. And if he could understand, maybe… maybe he could _save_ Juliana.

Steeling himself, he swipes a hand roughly over his face, brushing away the tears. He breathes in deeply, filling his lungs, getting his heartbeat under control. And then he looks up at Jonah with red-rimmed eyes, face set with grim determination.

“Tell me what happened to her.”

All throughout the deluge of words that are the telling of the grisly tale, Jonah is equally as transfixed as Jonathan himself is. It is as though he walks the woods himself, just past little Jonathan’s shoulder, invisible and silent. Jonah experiences Jonathan’s terror for himself, though his relationship with the emotion is far, far different than the child’s: to Jonah, it is his lifeblood, invigorating and confirming that he is what he is—a monstrous being, far removed from the perils of humanity. He can no longer die like they can. He had, once. But he wouldn’t call that a death—he prefers to call it an _ascension._

Jonah’s knowing-nature has great stores of information at hand, and early on into the story, he begins to find it _familiar._ He has read this story before because Jonathan has written it before, for the satisfaction of the archives that are as much a part of him in this world as his constructed flesh and bone. But a written tale is not as sweet as a living one; not as vivid as walking the same path as the suffering protagonist. A fresh type of anguish for the insatiable Eye.

Jonathan beats the floor and he weeps and Jonah watches, listens, waits. He eats the entirety of his apple, core and all. Sympathy is not what Jonathan seeks—having just relived his childhood, he would be likely to interpret it as _coddling—_ and so Jonah offers him none. Jonah hopes that he will come to appreciate the catharsis of telling his story, in time. But he didn’t call him here to be an audience—he invited Jonah in for answers or, failing that, direction.

“You already know the answer to that. She was abducted,” Jonah softly begins. His face is neutral but his voice is patient and understanding. “But that isn’t the question you want to ask, is it? No, you need to know _how—_ perhaps even _why._ You need to know what took her—and whether or not she can be saved. It burns at you, I can tell. Your voracious need for _resolution.”_

Something in Jonah’s tone bristles at Jonathan, digs at his wounded pride. There’s little else he hates more than to be so vulnerable, to be seen as weak or pitiable. But Jonah offers him no sympathy, no meaningless words of comfort. He regards Jonathan with absolute neutrality, and though there’s no outcome that would have _pleased_ Jonathan, he supposes that this is the best one he could have hoped for in the wake of his outburst.

“Pedantry,” Jonathan mutters, but his heart isn’t in it. Because like it or not, Jonah is right. Jonathan needs to know who took her and why, more than he’s ever needed anything else. Over half of his life thus far has been lived in the service of getting answers. Knowing them is fundamental to moving forward and setting things right. And though Jonathan barely allows himself to hope for a favourable resolution to all this, he cannot _—will_ not—allow himself to believe that there’s nothing at all to be done.

Jonah pauses for effect, but also to allow Jonathan to tidy his countenance further. Jonah doesn’t mind his state of disarray—finds it slightly charming, even—but he understands the desire to put on a dignified face. “Now, here is what you need to understand: we of the Eye are not all-knowing, much as we would like our reputation to say otherwise. I do not know what happened to your sister.” Jonah leans forward, gripping the cane in both his hands as if to restrain his own intrigue at being presented with a mystery. “That being said, I do have highly informed theories. And I have access to great troves of knowledge _precisely_ on the subject of supernatural phenomena. Libraries, records, contacts... I could share all of these with you. I could give you all the tools you need to seek the answers for yourself.”

Jonathan hauls himself to his feet, leaning heavily against the desk. He looks away from Jonah, just for a moment, ducking his head to discreetly dry his eyes as he cleans his spectacles. When Jonah explains he isn’t all-knowing, Jonathan scowls and shoves his spectacles back onto his face. Smirke had certainly led him to believe otherwise. But he supposes it makes sense that the man had overstated this fact as well. After all, he had told Jonathan that his ritual would summon the being and bind it, and that had clearly proven to be a half-truth at best. Either that or he was having Jonathan on, and he would much rather believe that Smirke was a fool over himself being taken for one.

“Share them, then,” Jonathan says. “Tell me your theories. Grant me access.” He tries to keep the eagerness out of his voice, but hope—damnable hope—swells in his chest. “If you can’t give me the answers yourself, then help me get them.”

As dreaded optimism colours Jonathan’s voice and he starts to lean in to listen, Jonah reclines in the borrowed chair in a deliberate show of being at ease, confident in his ability to control the situation. _He_ holds the precious insight Jonathan seeks, and he is the one who has owned this room from the moment he first entered it. On his knees, Jonathan is a desperate, tear-streaked man, and Jonah is poise and perfection itself—the very picture of cunning, alive.

“I would love to,” Jonah begins, “but I do not work unless I am under contract. Fair compensation for my time and effort, you understand.”

“Compensation?”

Disbelief is thick in Jonathan’s voice, and he doesn’t bother to hide it. What could someone—some _thing—_ like Jonah even want for? His freedom, maybe, if he had been bound. But the ritual had failed in that respect, hadn’t it? Jonathan can’t imagine anything that Jonah would want that he could provide. Certainly not money or the luxuries Jonah seems to favour, given his dress. But perhaps more importantly, what would Jonah count as ‘fair’? Jonathan asks as much.

Disregarding the question, Jonah glances up past Jonathan, towards the dusty window, looking out on the edges of buildings lit up by streetlights and all their glassy reflections. It seems as though he would like to get a better view, but seeing as he cannot leave the circle, he does not bother to stand. “I like London,” he muses. “It’s a good city—I used to live here, you know. I wouldn’t mind staying a while: seeing the sights, catching up with old friends. _But—”_ and Jonah lets out his breath in a theatrical sigh, letting the undergarments compressing his chest assist the gesture. “I cannot come unless invited, and I cannot stay unless I’m bound. Which is how you come in.”

In surveying Jonathan, Jonah’s eyes are alight with ideas; his voice is weightless and lively. To him, this is not the grave matter of saving a family member—no, this is a diversion; an embarking on an exciting new journey. “I will swear to be your tutor and assist you in unravelling the mystery of your sister’s disappearance if you bind yourself to me as my pupil. Despite what the stories say, I am not interested in the fate of your immortal soul. All I would need from you is a promise spoken and a few drops of blood shed. Or tears, if you prefer.” His gaze slips away from Jonathan’s face, sliding down his arm to regard the gentleman’s bloodied hand. “You’ve bled for me enough tonight, I should think,” Jonah says with a grin.

Jonathan follows his gaze over to the single window in the room, to the miserable little view of the dark, dingy street outside. Even this late it’s loud out there, with the sounds from the street rising up, barely muffled by the thin glass and drafty window frame. Necessity brought Jonathan here to this part of London: cheap rent and few questions and the relative anonymity afforded to him by living amongst those who were best served by keeping their heads down. Here, he melted in alongside the shadows, and he scarcely garnered a first look, never mind a second. He wonders what it is Jonah sees that evokes such wistful contemplation.

That Jonah used to live in the city comes as a bit of a shock to Jonathan. But he doubts the London Jonah seems to remember so fondly is anything like the one Jonathan has come to know. A creature such as he would be more at home with all the comforts and luxuries of living in the West End. Jonathan is somewhat relieved that Jonah seems to need little more from him than a means by which he can remain physically here, happy that the cost appears to be well within his means.

“Not _for_ you,” Jonathan scowls. While he has bled quite a lot more than he anticipated, he refuses to shed another tear in Jonah’s presence. He’s already debased himself enough for the evening. And what was a bit more blood? A trifling price to pay for access to all that Jonah has promised. Jonathan has come this far; he wasn’t going to back down now.

Once more he takes up the blade—hopefully for the last time tonight. “What would you have me say?”

Though he disagrees, Jonah does not press the issue any further. Jonathan is allowed to think what he likes with regards to what he’s sacrificing to, but it will not change the actions: Jonathan will bleed, Jonah will consume, and they will both be satisfied by the outcome.

Jonah rises to his feet and delicately lays the cane across the seat of his chair rather than have it possibly fall and disturb the chalk lines—or interrupt the vows they are about to make, which Jonah considers to be far more important. Standing in the open ring between eye and rigid, binding geometry, he asks for Jonathan’s hands, for he cannot cross the sigil’s boundary to take hold of them himself. He cups them from below, turning bleeding flesh up towards the sky in supplication. Jonah’s warm hands are soft for having neither worked nor lived a day in his life. Jonathan still holds the surgeon’s blade, which Jonah finds acceptable.

The sophic; the being that calls itself Jonah commands all of Jonathan’s unblinking, unwavering attention. It stares, and it stares, and it begins to speak with reverence and with holy gravity.

_“Ego quī vigilō  
et quī audiō  
et quī opperior:_

_Ego voveō adjurare hunc discipulum hic magnus fīet  
sub obtūtū omniscientī  
verendī Oculī.”_

_“I who watch  
and I who listen  
and I who wait:_

_I vow to help this student become great  
under the omniscient gaze  
of the awesome Eye.”_

The candles lean in to listen. The pupil beneath the chair dilates with interest.

“Now you.” Jonah says, and “Repeat after me.” Line by line, crisp and clear on the enunciation, he gives Jonathan his words.

When Jonah stands and steps closer, it takes everything Jonathan has in him to not flinch back and away. The image of the _thing_ that had appeared within the circle enters his mind unbidden, massive and wriggling, spreading and stretching all the way up to the ceiling. _That’s_ what Jonah truly is: an unimaginable horror. The soft body and handsome face of the human form he had chosen to wear only serve to obscure the monstrosity.

Jonathan would do well to never forget it.

But as it stands, Jonah is the best chance that he’s ever had at learning the truth. Jonathan had gone into this ritual prepared to make sacrifices, be they of a physical nature or one less tangible. And though Jonah has both under- _and_ overwhelmed his expectations, Jonathan’s willingness to do whatever it takes to see this through remains unchanged. He’ll enter into this pact with Jonah and, though it’s no easy task, he’ll have to learn to trust that Jonah will hold up his end of the bargain.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, Jonathan reaches out across the lines of the sigil and places his hands into Jonah’s outstretched ones. His palms are soft underneath Jonathan’s fingertips, warm and smooth where the corded appendages of his true form had been cold and slick as they wrapped around his wrists. Human, Jonathan thinks; a perfect facsimile.

His vision narrows in an instant when Jonah begins to speak, fixated on the movement of his mouth, the bow of his upper lip, the straight white line of his teeth. Jonathan doesn’t hear the words so much as he feels them—perfect, resonant syllables that trap and catch his breath in his chest. Jonathan is _known_ like this, wholly and completely. Every facet and flaw of him offered up for the scrutiny of something whose presence he feels prickling against every inch of exposed skin. It makes him feel base and dirty and shameful. It makes him feel scoured and scalded and hollowed out. It feels like every fear that Jonathan has ever known. It feels _divine._

And when Jonah asks Jonathan to repeat after him, he does so at once, hallowed words in a hushed voice:

_“Ego voveō cognōscere et discipulus magnus fīam  
sub obtūtū omniscientī  
verendī Oculī.”_

_“I vow to learn and become a great student  
under the omniscient gaze  
of the awesome Eye.”_

The candles flicker briefly and then flare, sixteen flames that dance along the edges of the sigil. And all at once it seems to Jonathan that the circle at the center, the pupil of the great eye, yawns open behind them, widening out to the edges of the many lids as though it means to engulf them where they stand. Jonah curls Jonathan’s fingers around the scalpel he still holds, guiding his hand gently over until the blade is pressed into the meat of his palm, just next to the cut Jonathan had made before. Without looking down, Jonathan slides the blade across his skin, opening a bloody, stinging line across his hand parallel to the first.

There’s a heavy pause; a long moment of silence and stillness and the metallic tang of blood that permeates the air shared between them. And then Jonah moves, bringing Jonathan’s hand to his mouth to press a soft kiss to the center of his palm, almost chaste. Jonathan watches with rapt attention as Jonah stares back with wide, unblinking eyes and lets his mouth fall open to run his tongue over the wounds.

It _stings._ Jonah moves with a deliberate slowness, dragging the flat of his tongue across the width of Jonathan’s palm, pressing against the cuts as though he could sink down into them. Blood flows anew from the first incision, dribbling down into Jonah’s mouth to pool with that of the second, staining his teeth and gums crimson. He continues past the end of Jonathan’s palm, up along the base of his thumb to the pad of it where the very first cut Jonathan had made has long since stopped bleeding. Drawing it into his mouth, Jonah pushes the tip of his tongue against the clot and sucks, coaxing blood once again to the surface, until Jonathan can no longer tell the difference between the hot spill of blood over his skin and the warm, wet pressure of Jonah’s mouth.

It’s all Jonathan can do to keep his knees from buckling underneath him when Jonah pulls his mouth off of him and his lips are wet and shining with his blood.

Jonah is the very picture of base satiation as he licks his chops in the wake of that experience. He has missed this feeling a great deal: there is something uniquely satisfying about consuming a part of someone else, freely given with full knowledge of the act’s significance. The vows keep him present, but this is what keeps him _vital—_ a human form sustained by humankind itself. He does not hunger or thirst as people do, as that would distract from his ceaseless work—but he, being human once and nostalgic for fleshly delights of all sorts, still likes to partake in food and drink when they are set before him. The tang of iron on his teeth puts him in mind of rare steaks; of black puddings and long, filling breakfasts. Jonah sighs his satisfaction and nods his subtle approval.

Now that the oath has been made there is no further need to hold Jonathan, and so Jonah lowers his hands and takes a step back. “Well done,” he croons, half-turning to pick up his cane. “Now, if you would be so kind as to break the circle, we may discuss how to proceed.”

Jonathan blinks down at Jonah, momentarily at a loss for words. His hands still prickle with sensation: the phantom touch of Jonah’s hands against his own, the hot slide of Jonah’s tongue across his palm and fingers.

No one has ever touched him like that before.

As far as he knows, no one has ever _wanted_ to. There’s been little enough reason for anyone to touch him over the years, and certainly he’s done nothing to encourage the contact. He can’t actually recall the last time that anyone _had_ touched him beyond a simple clasp of hands. Most probably during the war, he thinks, but that had always been out of necessity—to staunch the flow of blood, to save life or limb. Never because he sought it out; never for pleasure.

It was better that way _—safer_ that way. If he just kept to himself, hiding under layers of clothing and dour expressions and clipped conversation, then no one would ever know the truth of him. No one would ever be able to reject him for it. He’d be alone, yes, but by his own choice, own his own terms.

But now, with Jonah being like him, in a way—with Jonah still here and willing to help him despite knowing of his nature… things are rather different. Jonathan has never been tender-hearted by nature, and he’d sought out the solitude of his own company even as a child. But he isn’t made of stone, no matter how much he may wish it, and when Jonah pulls his hands away, Jonathan feels their loss more keenly than he’d like to admit.

“Right.” Jonathan averts his eyes and scuffs the toe of his boot over the intersection of two chalk lines. As he does, a hush falls over the room—as though the sigil itself had made some sound, snuffed out now upon its breaking. It has the unfortunate consequence of making the beating of Jonathan’s heart loud in his ears.

Whatever it is he’s feeling at the moment, it isn’t real. It’s the blood loss, he thinks, and the increase in his pulse. Perfectly reasonable physiological explanations for how faint and witless he feels. Both things he can remedy.

He turns towards his desk, putting his back to Jonah as he goes about bandaging his hand. If Jonah were going to harm him, he’d have done so already, either of the times that Jonathan entered the circle. He needs the moment to collect himself more than he needs to keep a careful watch.

“So,” he says, tilting his head to the side to show that he’s listening. “When do we begin?”

As Jonah steps carefully to avoid the candles, he isn’t sure whether the relief he feels upon the circle being broken is more mental or spiritual, but he thinks it hardly matters because it’s satisfying all the same. Wanting to make a good impression for the sake of their working relationship, he gives Jonathan as much personal space as he is able when he plucks the snuffer off the desk where Jonathan left it. There being little sense in allowing perfectly good candles to burn when there is a lamp already in the room, Jonah goes about the circle extinguishing each in turn, supporting his weight on the cane as he does it. This time, he has nothing to fear from the dimming light—his presence here is now entwined with Jonathan’s, and he is here to stay for the foreseeable future.

“Tomorrow morning, I should think,” Jonah says from the floor. “It has been a long evening, and I need you sharp and alert to teach you the fundamentals.”

When the last of the candles dies, Jonah straightens up and checks his pocket watch: it is not too terribly late, but night comes early at this time of year and he knows that he’d best depart soon if he wants to go calling on anyone else this evening. Which he will, most likely—Jonah is accustomed to being contacted by people of at least enough means to have a guest room available for his use should he need it, and he highly doubts that Jonathan had the foresight to make those sorts of hypothetical arrangements. Jonah doesn’t mind: he’d rather spend the night in a home where he knows he will be waited upon.

“The place I should like to take you is closed this late into the evening regardless,” Jonah continues, returning the snuffer to its proper place upon the mantel. “Have you ever heard of the Magnus Institute, Jonathan? In Chelsea.”

Jonathan wants to argue, just for a moment, but ultimately decides against it. He’s waited over a decade for answers, after all: what difference would another day make? Besides, Jonathan is _tired._ Now that he’s had a moment to settle, weariness drapes itself heavily over his shoulders, bone-deep and complete. He could do with some time to himself and a couple hours of sleep.

In any case, it doesn’t seem as though Jonah were looking for a response, and Jonathan lets him finish snuffing out the candles in silence. His eyes fall shut as he winds the linen strip around his hand, moving on instinct and practice rather than by sight. The sharp smell of the extinguished candles is almost soothing in its familiarity, and he feels a bit calmer for it.

At the mention of the Magnus Institute, however, Jonathan’s eyes snap open. Face pinched in annoyance, he turns to shoot Jonah a sour look over his shoulder.

“Of course I have,” he scowls. “That was the first place I went when I started making inquiries several years ago. And for what? My account was taken readily enough, but I got little in return for my trouble.”

Facing forward again, he ties off the bandage in quick, efficient movements and secures the knot in place. Though it’s sore, his hand still has full movement when he bends and flexes it. He imagines the pain will be the least of his inconveniences in the coming days.

“The gentleman I spoke to said he’d write me if he found anything that could assist me in my search. Nearly three years later, and I’ve yet to receive any word.” Jonathan turns to face Jonah, leaning against the edge of the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t suppose you think you’ll have better luck?”

Jonah’s first instinct is to defend the Institute that bears his name and the staff who work there, but he bites his tongue since Jonathan is snippy enough already. Taking a moment to tamp down his temper, Jonah reforms his thoughts into a more agreeable shape. “I am not surprised—accounts such as yours are difficult if outright impossible to verify, and there is little use in theorizing about the details when it could very well be a complete fabrication. But now that I _know_ your account is true, I can bring that to the attention of the Institute’s researchers. They will listen to what I have to say. And besides, they do have an _excellent_ library.” That coy little spark is back in his smile—they will listen, indeed.

Jonah takes a deliberate look around the single room, his gaze settling on the small bed to appraise it. “I presume that I will be expected to find my own lodgings?”

Frowning, Jonathan looks away from Jonah, instead watching a wisp of smoke curl from the wick of one of the extinguished candles. He doesn’t appreciate the reminder that his story—his _experience—_ is hard to believe, more easily written off as childish fancy borne out of the loss of a sibling than taken for the truth that it is. He’d had to suffer that disbelief a thousand times over, that wretched wide-eyed pity that soon soured into concern and even affront when Jonathan, old enough to know better, insisted on his veracity.

But Jonah did say that he believed his account to be true, hadn’t he? Whatever he had done to force Jonathan into that fraught recounting, it was worth the debasement if it meant that something could be done. And if the researchers at the Magnus Institute were, in turn, spurred into action upon being subjected to Jonah’s terrible persuasion… Well, Jonathan wouldn’t _relish_ bearing witness to such a thing, but neither would he object to it, if it got him answers. He survived it well enough, after all.

Lost in thought, it takes Jonathan a moment to realize that Jonah has asked him a question.

“Your…?” He follows Jonah’s gaze to his bed, and understanding hits him all at once like a thump to the chest. His arms drop to his sides in his surprise, and when he clenches his hands into anxious fists, his palms are already starting to grow clammy. “Your lodgings. Right.”

Unfit as he may be to host company of any sort, enough of the trappings of polite society had been drilled into him at a young age to have him blanching at the thought of leaving a guest to sort out their lodgings on their own. He hasn’t the money to put Jonah up in even one of the dingy establishments found in this part of town, never mind in one of the fine places to which Jonah is undoubtedly accustomed.

Under the circumstances, the right course of action would be to offer up his own room for Jonah’s use. Better for him to do without than to visit such an insult on a guest. And if that thought smacks of the sort of instruction on proper behavior that his mother would dole out in her curt, disapproving voice, still so clear after so many years, it doesn’t make the sentiment any less true. Nor, it seems, does it make Jonathan any less likely to take it to heart.

He gestures roughly at his bed, refusing to meet Jonah’s eye. “It’s not much,” he starts, setting his jaw against the embarrassment, “but you’re welcome to stay here for the night. I’ll take my leave and go elsewhere.” It wouldn’t be the first time Jonathan spent the night in his workroom, not by a long shot. And while he had dearly hoped to get some sleep tonight, some things can’t be helped.

“Oh, no, it’s not a bother,” Jonah insists as he turns the gesture of waving away the offer into searching his pockets for his pair of gloves. The kid leather is flawless: Jonah putting them on and flexing his hands is the first breaking-in they’ve ever seen. “I understand that you were not expecting to host this evening, and I do not mind imposing myself on one of my other acquaintances.” He has a particular one in mind—the person ultimately responsible for his presence here, in fact. Given that, Jonah knows for certain that he will not be turned away when he comes calling.

It seems as though Jonah is about to make for the door and depart, but he pauses to examine what Jonathan has hanging on his coat rack: an overcoat, a scarf, a felt top hat. Jonah plucks the hat from it, takes a closer look, and brushes off a piece of fluff and a couple of hairs from the brim. Satisfied thus, he puts it on.

“I shall be lodging with Mr. Robert Smirke at 81 Charlotte Street. Come by in the morning for breakfast, and then we may depart for the Magnus Institute together.” Jonah opens the door, gives Jonathan one final nod, and smiles that enigmatic and infuriating little smile. “Good evening, Doctor Fanshawe,” he says, and soon all that remains of him are the taps of his pristine boots on the floorboards, fading off into the distance.

“Right…” Jonathan trails off, watching with bemusement as Jonah dons Jonathan’s hat as if it were his own and fusses with the way it sits atop his head. He wants to ask what Jonah thinks he’s doing, taking his hat without so much as a by-your-leave, but he doesn’t trust his mouth to keep from asking the real question on his mind, the answer to which he suddenly finds he’d very much like to know. 

What sort of acquaintance would see to Jonah’s lodgings so late in the evening?

But no, better to bite his tongue entirely than to indulge his curiosity and imply any interest in Jonah’s more personal business. Besides, Jonathan doesn’t wish to discourage him from whatever plans he has in mind—Jonah having somewhere else to go means that Jonathan will be able to get some sleep tonight after all. The hat is a small price to pay for that peace. He’ll simply insist on its return come the morning.

Hearing Smirke’s name spoken aloud brings a frown to Jonathan’s face, a stark reminder of the difficulty and embarrassment of the evening. While it was true that the ritual hadn’t _failed,_ it certainly hadn’t worked as promised, and for that Jonathan held Smirke accountable. He isn’t keen on seeing the man again so soon.

When Jonah leaves, Jonathan doesn’t bother wishing him a good evening. Merely meets that irritating grin Jonah levels him with a flat look of his own. But when the door closes behind him, and all that’s left are the soft sounds of Jonah’s retreating footsteps, Jonathan is gripped with the oddest sort of feeling—something that is neither quite relief nor quite regret. It rises in his chest, this strange, half-hysterical incredulity, and it drives him to his feet, suddenly desperate for proof that Jonah had been real at all.

The creak-thud of the front door being open and shut has him lurching over to the window, peering out through the grimy glass to the street below. He catches a glimpse of red hair and presses his forehead to the window pane to better see as Jonah makes his way down the street. Against the dirty, dreary backdrop of the neighborhood, Jonah is vivid, immaculate. A bright spot in an otherwise dim world. Jonathan watches him intently, eyes straining and watering at his refusal to blink, until Jonah passes into the darkness beyond the light of the oil lamps and disappears from Jonathan’s sight.

Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Jonathan takes a step back and leans his back against the wall to his right. Exhaustion settles heavily on his shoulders, and he gives in to the weight of it, sinking into a crouch, waistcoat catching against the peeling wallpaper as he slides down to the ground. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision, and looks out over the room to survey the damage: the scatter of extinguished candles, still lightly smoking; the white chalk lines of the sigil, smudged now in several places; the small, dark pool of his blood, smeared and dried onto the wooden floorboards.

It’s a mess.

Normally, Jonathan would make to tidy it immediately. Clear it up, pack it all away—deal with it now so that he didn’t have to later. But… 

His eyes slip closed almost of their own accord. Ignoring the twinges in his lower back and neck, he settles further against the wall, knees drawn up close to his chest. In the morning, he’d figure it out. Clean up the mess, address the stinging cut on his palm, make Jonah give him some straight answers. For now, though, he’ll spare his tired eyes and his aching hands and his pounding head and get some rest.

Just this once, everything can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translation done by clairvaux. Thank you so much!
> 
> As always, huge thanks to the Jonah server. Love you guys <3
> 
> Cat (spiraldistortion) can be found on twitter and (sometimes) on tumblr. Come say hi!
> 
> Leto (Autodidact) can be found on twitter and on tumblr.
> 
> **Content warnings:**  
>  Abduction, harm to children, and blood sacrifice. [return to top]


End file.
